Labour Day Weekend
The Labour Day Weekend Market is always busy. Everyone is back from holidays, and they are stalking up for the weekend celebrations and going back to school. It’s a good market for us providing that the crops ripen on time, and last weekend they had. .
Some of the university students are back. The frosh arrive at market accompanied by parents helping them stock up for independence. I look at a mother and daughter. The mother is opening her wallet. She wants to buy a little more time, a little more care, a little more mothering. Her daughter looks at the zucchini. “ I only need one, “ she says, almost controlling her eye-roll. “ I won’t be able to eat any more than that. “
It’s exciting to take your child to university. It also breaks your heart. I put one zucchini in a brown paper bag
Still, there weren’t many students this week, so I guess their first week is coming next week. I wonder where the mother and her daughter were from. I think, perhaps, they came down from Northern Ontario. Sometimes I make up stories about my customers.
People are focused. They aren’t hanging around the stall chatting, and we have line-ups.
I complete a sale and turn to the next customer. Suddenly I realize that the last customer bought an eggplant, but it never got into her bag. I look around, and grab an eggplant leaving the customer I’m serving with an abrupt “ Excuse me, “
I walk into the crowds but can’t find the customer; I can’t remember what she looked like. That annoys me. My husband looks at me and frowns curiously. “ What are you doing standing in the middle of the market waving eggplants? “
I say, “ ANNNNNN- next week, if anyone asks you about not getting an eggplant - I didn’t put it in the bag. “
After market, Howard and I always talk about the “ highlights” of market. We remember the one customer, one big event. This week, neither of us had one, though I did try and make the case that I had been pleased when a regular customer returned after passing by our stall with nary a glance. For both of us, the market was more like a blur.
I remember, towards the end of market, going inside and leaning on the Olivar stall pointing in the direction of their white balsamic vinegar. Dolores tells me my stall always looks lovely. I’m too tired to respond. Besides, it doesn’t look lovely right now. “ Naw, “ I say, “ It’s in shambles right now. “
Sales had been fast, and we were concerned only with putting out the produce, and somewhere along the line had stopped arranging it.
We don’t have much in the way of leftovers though I know I will spend the rest of the weekend freezing and cooking. Still, it takes a long time to pack up, and it’s two o’clock before we get to sit down for lunch.
Ah, yes, lunch after the busy Labour Day Market. We sit at our kitchen table and eat toasted Tomato sandwiches with cheddar cheese